Vanessa stepped closer. “I’m trying to help her. She won’t eat. You’re never here. You have no idea how hard it is with a child like this—”
“Don’t,” Jonathan interrupted sharply. “Don’t ever speak about my daughter that way.”
Vanessa’s expression shifted again. Then she said, “I’m pregnant.”
The words fell heavily.
Isabella tightened her grip around his neck.
Jonathan said nothing. He carried his daughter inside, sat her at the kitchen table, and poured her a glass of water. Her hands were still shaking.
In the corner, the housekeeper, Marisol Vega, washed dishes in silence. When their eyes met, Jonathan saw something that chilled him—not surprise, but recognition. This wasn’t new.
That night, he didn’t argue. Not because he believed Vanessa—but because he realized he was dealing with someone who knew how to perform.
He put Isabella to bed. Even asleep, she seemed tense, as if expecting the door to open again.
Near midnight, Jonathan heard footsteps.
He cracked his study door and watched from the shadows.
Vanessa walked down the hallway, gripping Isabella’s wrist. The child’s head was bowed.
They went toward the garden.
Toward the shed.